Chapter 45

Prue

The laundry basket was a wicker cage of damp towels and heavy linens that seemed to grow heavier with every step I took, pulling at my shoulders like the oppressive, silent judgments of the pack members who watched me move through the halls in a place I clearly did not belong.Watch and judge all you want – I'm not here of my own free will. Among the thoughts racing through my brain – I usually prefer to keep a tight leash on my inner monologue, but these were moving too fast to track – was the memory of John kissing Nico. Again. In the hall. At first, I couldn't believe my own nose, even though it was the one that tipped me off that the Beta was nearby. My mind simply failed to comprehend the rationale behind what I was seeing. It still doesn't. Life rarely surprises me, but I have to tell you: this was one hell of a surprise.

Was he actually gay, but so deep in the closet that even a moth was more 'out' than him? Was it an accident? Was it another dare I’d somehow missed? But if it was, why try to threaten me into silence? I wonder, was he just as confused as I was? Hmmm...

When I was done with all washing and folding, I made my way back to my room, trying to ignore that prickling, unexplainable uneasiness that had been crawling under my skin all day – that phantom itch under my skin that warned me something was coming, even if the air itself was completely still. It wasn't that anything cataclysmically tragic had occurred, but rather a slow, suffocating erosion of my sanity that left me feeling like a wrong note played in a song everyone else was dancing to.

A hollow, demanding gnaw ripped through my stomach – a feral hunger that defied the massive dinner I had consumed mere hours ago. My legs detoured toward the kitchen, the air there was thick with the lingering scents of spices and roasted meats, taunting me with the warmth of a home I wasn't really allowed to inhabit. My mind cycled through a litany of cravings – greasy chips, ice cream, the sweet, illicit crunch of cookies – before landing on the strangely specific, comforting decadence of cheese slathered in mayonnaise. My stomach churned at the thought of the inevitable bloating, a physical price I was usually unwilling to pay, but the craving was an iron hook in my gut, pulling me toward the refrigerator.

I stood before the cold, humming monolith, inspecting shelf after shelf with the critical eye of a woman searching for a cure to an invisible ailment. When my gaze landed on a plastic pack of strawberries, I felt a spark of something like hope. I snatched the package, washed them with hurried, trembling fingers, and dumped them into a bowl, already popping one into my mouth as I turned to retreat. A wistful thought crossed my mind – would whipped cream make them a decadent luxury? Could they be dipped in hot chocolate? I pushed the thought away, a sharp, bitter edge to my own mental monologue; that was the kind of romantic, whimsical indulgence reserved for girls who were loved, not girls like me, whose life was painted in shades of repeated rejection.

Unfortunately.

But that kiss...Agrh...Not thinking about that.

I unlocked my bedroom door, entered and kicked the door shut, ensuring the deadbolt clicked into place with a definitive, jarring finality – I wasn't about to leave my den vulnerable to the prying, sniffing noses of wolves who thought they owned the very air I breathed. I quietly retreated into the center of my bed. Sitting cross-legged, I devoured my treasure, the strawberries bursting with a sweetness that felt entirely out of place in this room. They were a momentary, sugary lie in a reality that felt increasingly hostile. I scanned my surroundings, the walls closing in like the sides of a tomb, my heart sinking as I looked at the personality-lacking, gloomy space that was supposed to be my sanctuary but felt more like an enemy bunker.

With every contemptuous sweep of my gaze across the boring wallpaper and hidious carpet, my irritation didn't just simmer; it metastasized, bubbling over into a frantic, spiteful energy that made me want to set fire to the curtains just to watch something actually happen in this tomb of a room. The judgmental silence of the space only deepened the cavernous, aching void in my chest. I didn't belong here, and I certainly didn't belong to them – not to this pack, not to this life. Noone invited me nor wanted me here. Not even my mate...

A traitorous, hot tear escaped, carving a stinging path on my cheek. You know, a girl can play the part of the stoic survivor for a long time, building walls of steel around her heart, but even the strongest stone eventually fractures under the relentless tide of rejection. I hated the way the feeling of being unwelcomed clung to me like a second skin, a garment I had been forced to wear every single day of my life. I had never had the anchor of a pack, the comfort of a full family, or the messy, beautiful tangle of siblings and cousins. I was a leaf in the wind, and even the one person who was cosmically bound to cherish me saw me as nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.

The tears began to stream in earnest, hot and heavy, blurring my vision. I sniffed, a jagged, ugly sound in the silence, and wiped my nose with the back of my hand, forcing myself to keep eating the strawberries even as the salt of my own grief threatened to overwhelm their sweetness.

I told myself I was being melodramatic – it wasn't all darkness. I had friends from the human world, scraps of connection I’d gathered across different states. Unfortunately, the moment I moved, I received few texts here and there until they disappeared forever. Time and distance was like a silent eraser, smoothing over the moments we shared until they disappeared into the ether. As the self-pity began to drown me, a flicker of irritation sparked – Goddess, what was wrong with me? Was this just the hormonal haze of the approaching moon? I grabbed my phone, fingers flying, and tapped open my tracking app with a mix of dread and resignation.

Bleeding in four days.

Stupid, treacherous PMS. I gritted my teeth and chewed loudly on the final strawberry, a burst of red juice staining my lip. I wanted more – more food, more comfort, more anything to distract from the hollow ache in my ribs. I threw myself back against the pillows, clutching one to my chest like a shield, and began to mindlessly scroll through short videos, desperate to silence the noise in my own head. A travel clip featuring a sun-drenched, sapphire-blue coastline caught my attention, and a sudden, violent longing for the ocean clawed its way up my throat.

We had lived by the sea for two years – the best, most vivid years of my life. I was thirteen, fourteen, living in a world of salt air and endless, glorious light, so tanned I looked as though I’d been dipped in bronze. The water had been a living thing, a giant that played with us – nighbourhood teens – crashing against the shore with a strength that felt like a heartbeat. We jumped, we screamed, we splashed. I could still feel the phantom pull of the waves, the terrifying, exhilarating moment I slipped beneath the surface getting my nose full of salty water, only to be hauled back by the strong, calloused hands of my father while I caughed violently. Those were the days when I was tethered to something real, something that loved me. Those were really good old days, but now I didn't even have my dad besides me. I was left here in this cold, heartless place.

The tears started again, hot and fast, and for a wild, desperate second, I reached for my phone to call him – to scream, to beg, to ask to take me away from this den of wolves. But the pride – stopped me. He had chosen to abandon me, forced me to stay here and that betrayal was a wound that refused to heal, festering under the weight of my loneliness. This was so unfair.

I was lost in the storm of my own weeping when a sharp, rhythmic knock at the door shattered the silence.

I froze, my eyes widening in the dim light of the room. My breath hitched in my throat as I stared at the wooden barrier, my pulse thundering in my ears like a war drum. Fu.ck. I was a ruin – my face was blotchy, my eyes were swollen, and the raw vulnerability of my state was laid bare in the messy, tear-streaked ruin of my expression. If I ignored it, would they go away? Who in the world would be coming for me at this hour? My mind raced through a frantic list of possibilities, settling on the most terrifying one: The Alpha.

Yeah, don't get your hopes up, missy, I told myself, the absurdity of the thought warring with the rising panic in my blood. No one ever came for me. Why, of all the miserable nights in my life, would anyone choose tonight?

The knocking resumed, and I approached the door with the frantic, jagged wariness as if it was a rabid fox. Could I keep this entire interaction safely behind a barrier of doors?

"Yeah?" I called out, pressing my ear close to the wood.

A muffled, indecipherable grumble filtered through from the hallway, sounding like nothing but static. Honestly, did they soundproofed even the doors? I caught the heavy bolt with a surge of irritation, sliding it back with a violent jerk before yanking the door open.

"What?"

The guy on the threshold frowned, his expression flickering instantly into wide-eyed shock as he roomed over my face, followed by a storm of confusion. Fu.ck my life. Of course, it was the Alpha boy.